A Study In Green
by TheTigerBurnsBright
Summary: AU/Crossover. It's the story we all know and love. A wounded war veteran meets the world's only consulting detective who meets his arch-nemesis, but this time there's a twist. A crossover between BBC Sherlock and H.P. Lovecraft's Cthulhu Mythos. Heavily based on A Study In Emerald by Neil Gaiman.


**Author's Note: I'm not sure if this counts as a crossover or AU so I'm just gonna go with both to be safe. Again, this fic is heavily inspired by Neil Gaiman's short story, **_**A Study In Emerald,**_** which in turn is based on **_**A Study In Scarlet**_** by Arthur Conan Doyle and H.P. Lovecraft's Cthulu Mythos. As a disclaimer, I own nothing. Neil Gaiman owns the idea, Arthur Conan Doyle and H.P. Lovecraft own the characters and The BBC owns Sherlock Holmes' modern variant, and I just own the prose and nothing else. **

I was thrashing about in my bed, no doubt causing a horrid ruckus throughout my lonely flat, the victim of yet another nightmare about the war. That terrible war! The beastly war of men and beasts. The war that left me a limp for all my troubles.

With a jolt I awoke, drenched in sweat and shaking with nervous energy. Since it was nearly dawn I decided to get up and prepare for the day. Another dreary day that will probably be spent cooped up in my flat, trying to write about my boring, meaningless life. I heaved a deep sigh.

I spent the next few hours staring at my laptop. Suddenly I had the urge to go out for coffee. I was a bit tired of moping about. Assimilating back into civilian life wasn't easy, as they've told me.

After purchasing a small cup of coffee at a nearby park vendor, I decided to take a stroll through the park. After all, they told me to exercise my leg as often as possible. They also told me keeping a blog would help the depression, but they were wrong. It didn't help at all.

Depressed and starving for stimulation of any kind, I saw an old friend from university sitting on a nearby bench, and with barely any hesitation, went to go talk to him. We went through the necessary small talk before I mentioned my monetary woes.

"It's too hard to keep a flat by oneself on an army pension, especially in London," I said. "It would be perfect if I could find someone to split a flat with. But who would want me for a flatmate?" He smiled at my poor opinion of myself. "What?" I asked with some asperity inching its way into my voice.

"It's just that you're the second person to say that to me today."

Who's the first?" I asked and he showed me.

We met at the historic hospital. Before we shook hands and I could get his name in exchange for mine, he asked me a strange and jolting question.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" He asked.

"Excuse me?" I said, Quite taken aback. He repeated his peculiar inquiry.

"Obviously you're a soldier back from the war; I was just wondering which country." He continued to amaze me by telling me exactly how he knew that, and he accurately guessed certain information about my family, and all from looking at my cell phone!

This strange man was a welcome break from my bleak, endless boredom, so I happily took him up on a flat share, and I moved in the very next day.

As I was making myself comfortable my new flatmate busied himself with looking out the window. I picked up a newspaper with a headline that interested me. "Seems there's been another royal suicide," I began. My friend grunted absentmindedly, continuing to stare out the window. "That makes it the third suicide in two months," I continued.

"Four," he said suddenly, still staring out the window.

"What?"

"There's been another," he turned to me. "A police cruiser just pulled up." Just then a man entered the flat. "Lestrade!" My friend greeted him. "What's happened?"

"You know how they never leave notes?" Lestrade said. There was a strange mixture of nervousness and excitement in his voice.

"Yes…"

"Well, this one did."

"Interesting…" My friend slowly paced the room, bringing his fingertips together. "Where?"

"Lauriston Gardens."

"I'll be right there," he said and Lestrade exited our flat. As soon as he left my friend jumped in the air and exclaimed a big "Yes!" eliciting a sharp cry of shock from me. "Four suicides and now a note," he continued. "It's Christmas!"

I was fairly surprised by his outburst, and a little irritated at his cavalier attitude toward something so horrendous. But more than anything I was intrigued. He asked me to come along with him to Lauriston Gardens to examine the body, and I happily agreed.

In the taxi I finally asked: "So I'm guessing you're some sort of private detective?" He smirked.

"Close," he said. "I'm a consulting detective, the only one in the world actually. I invented the job."

"Hmmm…" I said, deep in thought. It was all a little much to take in.

"Have you ever seen a royal in person?" He suddenly asked.

"No, actually," I confessed sheepishly. I was quite nervous about seeing one, especially one that was recently deceased.

"It can be shocking, the first time," he said. "Ah, we're here." We got out and he covered the taxi bill, and then we entered the crime scene.

Even though I had been mentally preparing myself for this moment even since before we got in the taxi, I was still taken very much aback. Lying in a pool of its own green blood was an eight foot tall mass of scales and tentacles. A royal. Eyes like eggs staring blankly ahead. By its outstretched claw a strange word was scratched in the floorboard. R. A. C. H. E.

"Could he have been trying to spell Rachel?" Lestrade suggested. "But died before he could finish?" It made perfect sense to me, but my friend dismissed the idea and began to examine the body.

"Gunshot wound to the head," he said. "Just like the others. There would've been a five minute window where he had time carve his message, and…" He slowly circled the room, pausing to examine the floor in the corner. "Footprints," he announced. "Human."

"What?" Lestrade rushed over.

"Two of them," my friend pointed them out to Lestrade. "Two men and one royal… The gun is next to the body, but it could've been planted there. There's no way to know for sure, and I'm certain testing it for prints will reveal nothing. This man is usually thorough."

"What man?" Lestrade asked, puzzled.

"Well Rache of course."

"Who's Rache?" I asked.

"Rache isn't really a man, as it is more of an organization," my friend began. "But I have discovered, quite recently I might add, that the Rache is run by one man. One remarkable man." His eyes darkened as his memory took over. "This man is the single mastermind behind most, if not all, crime in our fine country. He runs the show, so to speak. All the acts of rebellion can be traced back to his organization. Rache. Rache is German for revenge, revenge they want on our venerable rulers." I shuddered.

"You mean this wasn't suicide?" I asked.

"Murder," he said, his eyes darting back and forth, signifying that he was deep in thought. "He scratched the name of his killer in the floor. But why? He could've just written it in his own blood. It would've been easier. Unless…" My friend was pacing the room as Lestrade and I watched helplessly. Suddenly he broke off his tangent and raced back toward the body. He crouched down, staring intently at RACHE. He ran his fingers down the engraving and then cracked a smile. "Of course," he finally said.

"What?" we asked in unison.

"This was not made by tooth or claw. It's too smooth. It was etched with a knife. See?" He pointed to the scrawl and we leaned in for a closer look. "There's not enough serration and it's too… too organized."

"My God…" I said as the realization hit me.

"It was etched by Rache," he continued. "As his victim lay dying, trying to stop his murderer with what once of strength he had left." He looked at the royal's outstretched paw. "The bastard!" He got up at once and began pacing the room again, this time it was out of excitement.

"It seems to me, Lestrade," he said. "That you're a little out of your depth on this one."

Lestrade uttered a short expletive and then ran out to go call it in.

"That was amazing," I said.

"Thanks," he said, preoccupied with his thoughts.

"But why carve their name? What's the point?"

"He wanted the world to know it was him."

"Do you know who he is then?" I asked.

"I haven't the faintest," he admitted. "Hungry?"

We decided to walk to the diner instead of taking another cab. We were silent for the most part, but halfway through the journey my friend made an odd remark.

"You know," he began. "I feel like we were made for this."

"Pardon?" I said, puzzled.

"That we were destined to be together," he continued. "I have no idea why, but when I first met you it felt like I had been waiting for you my whole life." Never once did he look at me as he said this, as if he were too embarrassed at confessing these personal thoughts so soon into our acquaintanceship.

I had no idea how to even begin to respond to that, so I just said: "Er… Thanks." But really I was quite flattered. We walked on in awkward silence after that, until a small black limousine pulled up.

A man that looked like security detail for an important person got out and motioned for us to step in. "Right this way," he said.

I hesitated, but my friend said: "See the small mark on the side of the door? It is the mark of royalty." Then he spoke to the man. "What is this about?"

"The Queen would like to see you," was all he said. And with those ominous words lingering in our minds, we got into the car. We rode in silence and I was brooding over our situation the whole way there. Two royals in one day, and The Queen! God help us…

As we pulled up to the palace I noticed that my hands were trembling. I looked to my friend to find that he was as white as a sheet. We were about to meet our Supreme Ruler…

We waited in the waiting room for what felt like years, too nervous to sit or even walk around, before we were allowed in the throne room.

Once there, the first thing we noticed was the ten ton beast on the throne. She was the size of three large elephants, with wrinkled tentacles protruding from nearly every place on her body. Two flame like eyes burned into our souls. The Queen…

When she spoke, she spoke directly into our minds. "I'm glad the world's only consulting detective is on the case of my poor nephew's murder." The words reverberated through our entire beings. "Such a deep political intrigue should be handled with the utmost care."

"Indeed Madam," my friend said, bowing his head. "I will not let you down."

"This one's wounded," she said and I tensed up instinctively.

"Er… Yes Madam," I said. "I was wounded in Afghanistan."

"Come here," she said, motioning me with a few pulpy tentacles. I repressed a shudder and limped forward. To my horror she wrapped a tentacle around my wounded leg.

"I can fix the physical wounds," she said as I felt a warm, numbing sensation travel up my leg. "But I can do nothing for your mind." She let me go and I walked backward to my friend. I _walked_.

"Thank you," I said, bowing to her.

"Find him," she said, and we were dismissed.

The next day I awoke to find my friend missing. A few inquiries of the landlady revealed that my friend had left early that morning, hinting that he would be gone all day. No matter, I would find ways to entertain myself. I spent most of the day just walking around our flat, testing out my new leg. My limp had ceased indefinitely, and I was simply overjoyed. I was even able to write a little bit about my experiences from the last few days. I hardly noticed when it became five o'clock and my friend entered the flat.

"You've been out all day," I remarked. "Have you been working the case this whole time?"

"Yes," he said. "In a few minutes a cab will come to take us to the movie theater. It is imperative we go."

"Why on Earth—" I began, incredulously.

"I tracked him down," he said. "It took all day but I've got him." I was excited.

"Well, who is he?"

"Not yet, my friend, we must progress carefully. Any hint of our suspicion could ruin my carefully laid trap. Tonight we set the bait." He rubbed his hands together.

"But who is he?" I asked again. Just then the landlady came to tell us that our taxi had arrived. My friend smiled.

"The cabbie?" I asked, astonished.

"Shh…" He said. "Careful now, we can't even give him and inkling of doubt. We know nothing. We're just two guys going to see a movie together."

I confess that I must have stared at the cabbie longer than was necessary. He was tall, with black hair and a memorable voice, though he mostly remained silent. He drove us to the theater without suspecting a thing. I shuddered.

"To think we were this close to a seditious murderer," I said. My friend, though he had remained cool during the cab ride, now looked as though he were about to burst with excitement.

"It's him," was all he said. He couldn't stop smiling. "Come, let's see the movie."

I admit it was hard to concentrate on the film when we were so close to catching the killer. Although I did have a basic idea of what the movie was about. As it was decreed, all movies have to celebrate our venerable leaders. This film was no different. It was a historical narrative on the great day our rulers burst from their deep ocean slumber. Lord Cthulhu's grand awakening at R'lyeh was the focus of this particular film.

"So what's the plan?" I whispered to my friend. He hadn't been paying attention to the movie either, for he instantly replied.

"We invite him back to the flat tomorrow at a specific time. Lestrade and the police wait in ambush, and there. We've got him."

"Then what was all this about?"

"I just wanted to get a good look at him. To make sure it was really Rache. No man could fit my perception of him like that cabbie. I'd know him a mile away…"

"How do we get him to the flat?" I asked.

"We pretend to be fellow rebels." My heart nearly stopped.

"What!?" I whispered sharply. "Are you mad?"

"Quite, actually, but that's beside the point."

"What if we're caught? Do you know what happens to people that commit treason?" We both shuddered at the mere thought of it.

"It's a risk we've got to take," he said, "If it'll stop Rache."

After the movie, the cab met us to take us home and I looked right into Rache's eyes. Tomorrow we'd have him. During the car ride my friend was able to carefully ease Rache into talking about the rebellion. This is what he said:

"Did you hear about the royal suicides? It's all over the news you know."

"Yes," Rache replied in a monotone voice. "Terrible."

"Is it so terrible though?" I squirmed in my seat. Just hearing something so seditious panicked me, but I trusted that my peculiar friend knew what he was doing.

"What do you mean?" The cabbie asked and the little tremor of concern in his voice made me doubt my friend's judgment on the man's guilt.

"I'm just wondering if it would be so bad if our venerable rulers just disappeared. Are they really so good as to deserve our constant praise? If you think about it, what good have they really done for us?"

"So you're rebels?" The cabbie asked.

"We'd like to think so," my friend said. "We're not a part of any organization; I would love to join one though." The cabbie cracked a smile.

"You're either the stupidest man in the world or the most brilliant. Do you know how our _venerable rulers_ repay such sedition?" He said, venerable rulers, with a heavy dose of sarcasm. "It's lucky then, that I happen to be a fellow seditionist."

My friend risked a proud glance at me. "Is that so?"

"It is." I could see a mischievous glint in the man's eyes reflected in the rearview mirror. It was as if he were looking straight at me. I shivered.

"I know a good organization to join," he continued, "If you're interested."

"Yes, we're quite interested."

"We'd need a nice quiet place for a chat, where inquisitive ears cannot listen in…"

"What about our flat? Would that be okay?"

"That would be fine," said Rache. He smirked for the briefest of moments, so that I could hardly tell if it was reality or just a trick of my nervous mind. Either way, I couldn't help but feel a twinge of unease. When we finally got out of the cab, I was extremely grateful.

"Meet us here at ten o'clock AM tomorrow, if you're not too busy," my friend whispered to the cabbie.

"Will do," the murderer said as he drove off into the night.

My friend turned to me and said: "Now we wait."

The next morning I awoke to my friend and Lestrade having an involved conversation at the breakfast table.

"But why trust you? He must want to be cautious, especially so soon after the murder."

"What you fail to understand, Lestrade, is that rebels love recruiting others to their cause. It is their Achilles' Heel, so to speak…." I entered the room. "Good morning! Have some breakfast." I grabbed a piece of toast but I hardly ate, I was far too nervous. It would be ten soon. My friend seemed more excited than nervous.

"We'll have him soon," he announced.

"We'd better," Lestrade said gruffly.

"We will," my friend assured. He pressed his fingertips together, and then brought them up to his lips. "Any minute now."

I felt like I was back in combat, the suspense was unbearable. Lestrade had a man waiting by our building's door, ready to alert us of the approaching target, and we waited anxiously for his call. But it never came. We waited five, ten, even fifteen minutes, but Rache didn't show. My friend became very agitated.

"Why isn't he here yet? He should be here by now. What's going on?" He began to pace the room. "He should be here," he kept mumbling. After a while he sat back down. Then our landlady entered the room.

"Here's a letter for you that I just found by the front door. I almost missed it; it was nearly hidden beneath the welcome mat! Must've been sitting there for hours." She handed my friend a plain white envelope and then left. With a sinking feeling I watched my friend open it.

"It's from him," he said, hardly surprised. He read it to us and I could almost hear the cabbie's deep voice.

Congratulations on finding me! I have been watching you for some time and I must admit you're quite the detective. Bravo! Unfortunately I was able to stay one step ahead. Sorry. I knew who you were, and your exact purpose as soon as you stepped foot in my cab. But you put on a good show. It is a great shame that you're on the side of our invaders, we would've loved to have someone with your skill in our organization. I hope that one day you wake up and realize the misery our alien dictators have put us through. They take away our freedoms daily and they devour human souls just for kicks. Sure they tolerate most of us, but as soon as we outlive our usefulness… I don't need to continue for you to get the idea. I enjoyed this little adventure we shared. Better luck next time. Goodbye and good luck trying to find me. Revenge cannot be so easily pinpointed.

—S. H., Leader of Rache

Lestrade spoke into a receiver: "I need an all-ports warning for suspect at large."

"It's too late," my friend said. "He's probably halfway across Europe by now."

Lestrade cursed and ran out the door, frantically shouting orders into his walkie-talkie.

"He had a partner, didn't he?" I asked, suddenly remembering the second set of footprints at the crime scene. "What happened to him?"

"Rache probably took him with him, he was a retired army doctor, could be useful." My friend was calm, but I could sense broiling tension beneath his cool exterior. Then he exploded.

"Damn!" He shouted, pounding his fist on the table. "Dammit, Sebastian, I almost had him!" He stood up, shaking visibly with rage.

I admit I was extremely disappointed, though not so angry. But more than anything I wanted to comfort my distraught friend.

"I'm sorry, Jim," was all I could muster. He ignored me and ran up the stairs, mumbling angrily to himself. I heard the loud, faraway slamming of a door. I sighed. He needed to cool off. As great a man and detective as James Moriarty is, he certainly has a temper.

* * *

**If you liked this story, you should read the original it was based on, **_**A Study In Emerald**_** by Neil Gaiman.**

**If you are unfamiliar with the Cthulu Mythos you should read the short story, **_**The Call Of **__**Cthulhu**_** by H.P. Lovecraft.**

**And of course, you should read the one that started it all, the first Sherlock Holmes story, **_**A Study In **_**Scarlet by Arthur Conan Doyle.**

**They can all be read on the internet, just type in the title and author into your search engine. **


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